The Son
by Smidy
Summary: Monster's POV - For the few brief, glorious moments directly following his birth, the Son was like any other – confused, dependent, shocked, but undeniably alive.


_AN: Just something I had to do for VCE Lit. Hope it's ok. :) _

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For the few brief, glorious moments directly following his birth, the Son was like any other – confused, dependent, shocked, but undeniably alive. Fortunate, yet unremarkable was he, to have been delivered into a place that stretched endlessly towards the shimmering horizon, that was so populated with soaring, majestic peaks, golden light and the expansive and eccentric nuances of nature and human behaviour. Fortunate, yet unremarkable was he, to have been brought willingly to this place – the aim of the single-minded labour of man, of his Father, who, through his toilings, affirmed the purpose of the Son's existence. Fortunate, yet unremarkable was he, to be valued.

It is only now, however, after having accumulated perception and experience and understanding, that the Son casts these moments in such esteem. Oh! That he could strike from his mind all the supposed 'treasures' of comprehension and exist purely and endlessly in those precious few moments, ignorant, simple and safe. That he could forgo all of knowledge's vices and corruptions and temptations and be content once more with the soft, protective ambiguity of his surroundings and of his own wretched self. That he could never recall the despair and disgust of his Father, not his cold, unfeeling rejection. That they could be reconciled, and he could be unremarkable once more.

Man, the Son was aware, could see himself reflected in his surroundings, in the face of nature. Man was as strong and well-rounded as a river stone, as majestic and complex as a sunset. The Son, also, was not ignorant as to the presence of his _own_ reflections, though his recognition, admittedly, was aroused by opposite aspects. The Son could be seen in the howling inconsistencies of a wintry gale and a stark and blunt desert of ice. His face did not bespeak the pleasantness of a light, warming breeze, nor his unrefined countenance of a calm and tranquil lake. Rather, it was stoic and unfriendly like a wind-swept cliff face, and his interactions were blistering and uncomfortable, like an unbearable heat or a glaring sun. His Father was charming, handsome, affable and rich and, in the beginning, the Son could not remotely fathom why he was not just so as well.

Perception and experience and understanding, however, have taught him to comprehend with an increased clarity, and now, malice and cruelty and madness seem to radiate from his Father. This scourge intermittently tears at his stolen, deceased heart and then makes him question the presence of such an organ in the first instance. Not for guilt or remorse – he had purged himself of those pitiful companions on his Father's wedding night – but for an odd, raging self-hatred that, despite all his power, despite all his destructive promise, insists on placing him below the humans he has such dominion over, below his slaves. He framed and effectively murdered the pretty servant girl, he suffocated the insolent child, he extinguished the dancing light in his Father's companion's eyes, he crumbled the old man, he decimated his Father's happiness with the killing of his beloved and consequently _forced_ him to take a decisive notice. _He_ did all this, _he_ handed all this down to them, as powerful and ruthless as a God, and yet still they rise, towering above him, superior and condescending like pale, ghostly judges.

And they have won.

The Son is always losing, always defeated and always spurned, and he knows why.

It became apparent to him as he loped resignedly away from the DeLacey household, his 'friends'' cries still shrieking in his ears and their fear still scorched onto his consciousness, that now, he was an expert on war. Having been constantly, ruthlessly embroiled in tolling battles ever since his inception, he was now well versed in the numerous aspects of interpersonal conflict – most intimately with its impetuses and its debilitating repercussions. He knew tactics; how it was most useful to move recklessly and violently when aiming to exacerbate or provoke tensions and to employ subtlety and restraint when attempting to broker peace or, alternatively, to infiltrate. He knew of famous battles through his readings; between Heaven and Hell and far distant monarchs and sultans. He knew of causes, of love, prejudice, retribution, greed and he knew of the dark instruments by which men battled, the sharp, pointed swords, swift arrows and sly, black cunning.

He halted abruptly, somewhere is the penetrating darkness of a forgotten field and the silence and loneliness of the setting turned inwards and smothered him, wrenched him towards the final aspect – allies. Historical battles, historical texts, his very own horrid experiences of vengeance and misunderstanding and adamant refusal, dictate, and then cruelly flaunt the indisputable necessity of support and empathy in way. Alone, the Son was forced to recognise the fact that the strength, loyalty and understanding of one's allies, of one's friends, is directly proportionate to one's chances of victory and success. Alone, the Son was forced to recognise the futility of his battle and the damning sabotage of his Father. What was supposed to be the great, formidable continent fighting by his side – his own impenetrable, soaring fortress – had defected, leaving the Son to the mercy of the attacking forces. Any trait or opportunity that could invoke this mercy, however, becoming distorted and tainted by his hideous and filthy visage – his Father's last and most devastating act of betrayal.

The battle was already lost.

But then, the idea struck him – a passing ridiculous, wondrous dream that, as he dared to ponder it, as he dared to cultivate it, grew stronger, clearer and increasingly constant. Fancy became reason and his grief and loneliness, a surging, somersaulting, swirling spiral of hope.

He told his Father of this dream and of his life tale and he listened begrudgingly and shallowly. He was restrained by his self-awareness and his carelessness and, seeming impossible to the Son, by his outstanding ignorance. He addressed the Son with scathing looks and unbearable disgust and spoke to him in harsh syllables and sounds, his insults and supposedly superior remarks battering the Son and angering him. "The wretched devils would spawn!", his Father exclaimed with disdain, the Son's actual presence not worthy enough to acknowledge. "They would multiply the terror and horror that has so besieged my weary, troubled heart – I cannot!" For a moment, the Son sat, marvelling. This, he supposed, was irony – the sneaking, clever golden force that belittled clever, auspicious men and made lesser ones smile. The force that, for fleeting moments, masqueraded defeat in the form of small victory and lingered, subtly, for years. The Son smiled ruefully – how strange that two events should mirror each other so perfectly. For as the Son continued existing, he received not truth, nor compassion, but an increased understanding of people's refusal to try to understand.

Thus, he was not surprised when his Father, having reluctantly agreed to his demands of the creation of a companion, turned on his work in its formative stages and chose, instead, to destroy. All the same, the eerie emptiness that followed the crushing and ripping and sinking of his idyllic, unremarkable dreams, sat within him uncomfortably and then spread, a fuzzy, seeping blackness flowing around inside.

His humanity slowly, tortuously suffocated.

And now, he was here. In the shadows of the graveyard which he has so successfully populated, watching, with a strangling, euphoric satisfaction, his Father writhing in torment in the graves of his beloved, the fuzzy blackness ripples with anticipation.

His Father knelt, broken and agonised at the foot of the graves and, with wide, arcing gestures and his favoured melodramatic, self-absorbed style, proclaimed daggers and terror and plague upon the Son. The blackness laughed and jeered and bubbled and spat, becoming more animated, more _joyful_ with each pointed insult and viscous accusation.

When his Father flung his arms wide, looked beseechingly to the Heavens and promised his life to revenge, the blackness roared in triumph. Through the Son, this translated to; "Good. Miserable wretch. I am satisfied. I am satisfied.", underscored by an inhuman, infernal laugh. His Father's head shot up, recognition plain across his face, and for a moment, this familial light made the son young again, ignorant again, unremarkable again.

The blackness stilled, the Son's heart ached and the light vanished.

Then the chase began.


End file.
